


If I Had A Tail

by QuokkaFoxtrot



Series: Dead Letter Chorus [5]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anxiety Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Character Study, Gen, Prequel, Tattoos, Therapy, brief reference to involuntary psychiatric remand/hospitalisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuokkaFoxtrot/pseuds/QuokkaFoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every coffee shop has an origin story.</p><p>(Set 4+ years before (I Think I Like) What I Don't Know About You, but can stand alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Had A Tail

**Author's Note:**

> I can't remember where I got that Newt's tattoo artist was named Fang, but I'm rolling with it. (I think it's Fanon?)
> 
> Posting and Chronological orders for Dead Letter Chorus available in the notes [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/66677).
> 
> Beta by Antheia. Mistakes by Me.
> 
> Title from Queens of the Stone Age's 'If I Had A Tail' off _…Like Clockwork_.
> 
> Russian translation by the lovely [OxanaS](http://archiveofourown.org/users/OxanaS/pseuds/OxanaS) available [here](http://pacificrim.diary.ru/p197073999.htm)!

Newt sits at the desk in his little apartment and puts down the pencil. The curtains are drawn and the only light comes from the small desk lamp to his right. He stares at the sketch he's done and exhales slowly.

It's time.

Five months ago, he'd been released; let back out into the world as if he were ready to face it. He could have stayed longer, could have made them keep him there, but the fear of staying had outweighed the fear of leaving. He'd rather be somewhere where he can control who comes and goes rather than live with the constant agitation niggling at the back of his mind that his door could always be opened.

He'd spent the last few months hiding; ordering in - food, groceries, clothes. If there's a knock at the door he gets to decide if he lets them in. He can look through the peephole and choose and the only anxious thoughts that bother him are what will happen if they don't go away. 

He talks to his psychiatrist twice a week - Skype calls in the early evening. He pays extra for the privilege and that's fine with him. It's taken eight months, but they've found a combination of drugs that leaves him feeling more human than dead weight. 

It's not perfect. He worries that he's never going to feel like himself again. 

Some days, he considers throwing all his meds into the toilet and flushing them away - pressing the plunger over and over again until all the little pink and blue and white and beige pills and tablets that wrap around his brain and rein him in flow away and break and dissolve. He wonders which would happen first; would he fly apart at the seams and explode, scattering his atoms across the universe? Or would he panic and contract, constrict down and down and down until he was one one-millionth of his original size, a black hole sucking everything in?

Ironically, it's the anxiety that stops him doing it. The little buzz of nervous energy, flickering constantly around his brain. The part that skitters across his skin when he thinks too much, tightening around his upper arms and holding him back like a physical force. It stays his hand and whispers to him of the embarrassment and shame that come in the aftermath. It keeps him in his apartment when the meds have him all over the place and his manic highs want him to go out and _live_.

(The farthest he's made it is the sidewalk before everything overwhelms him and he's rushing back to safety, hyperventilating as he's fumbling with his keys.)

He almost likes his lows now. Being down doesn't turn off the twitchy _what if what if what if_. He just doesn't _care_ about it.

He submitted his resignation last week.

He's convinced that everyone in the faculty hates him and spend all their time talking about what a freak he is. He used to be able to brush it off when it was real; when he was the genius wunderkind racing about campus and throwing all that he was into learning everything he possibly could. He knew back then that people hated his excitement and wonder, his youth and desire to learn. He knew they hated how easily it came together for him while they were struggling - especially if he offered to help. He didn't blame them, but he wasn't going to let it hold him back.

Now the thoughts are like a drunk relative at a wedding he didn't want to go to; arm wrapped around his shoulder telling him all the reasons why everyone thinks he's worthless, but worse. It follows him around, crawls under his skin and sits there waiting to point out how he's going to fuck it all up and everything that could go wrong.

His psychiatrist thought quitting was a bad idea; thought he needed a definitive goal to get him back on track. She pointed out that he'd been trying very hard to finish the papers he'd been working on before The Incident. It takes him fifteen minutes to build up the courage to tell her that it's the anxiety; that he's terrified of letting his former students and colleagues down when they'd all worked so hard.

He's convinced she hates him. He struggles to remind himself that he's paying her to listen; overtly hating him would lower her profit margin. It makes their sessions awkward, but he's smart enough to realise that it would be the same with anyone.

He doesn't want to be like this; all but trapped in his apartment talking only to people he pays to be there. 

(He hired an escort once. Once. He doesn't like it when it's one sided. And he _really_ doesn't like it when he's certain the other person's just waiting for him to finish.)

He needs to do something. He knows this. He needs to take control back - actual control, not just hastily erected walls thrown up about him to keep him safe. 

He looks down at the paper in front of him and thinks he has the beginnings of what he needs.

He slips the paper into a protective plastic sheath and stands, rushing around the apartment and gathering together the things that he has to take; his jacket, his wallet, his headphones and mp3 player. He throws on a hoody and walks around methodically checking all the latches on the windows, double checks that the burners aren't on, that the faucets aren't running. He stops in the middle of the apartment, closing his eyes and taking slow deep breaths, before he starts checking all the cords for electrical faults.

He's not obsessive-compulsive. He's just coming to accept the fact that he lives in a world of Worst Case Scenarios now, and he can see them all. 

He pulls on his jacket and shoves his wallet and keys into his jeans. Pushing the headphone jack into the mp3 player, he settles the large, over-ear, noise-cancelling, god-sent _saviours_ over his head. He doesn't know how he managed to survive without them, even before everything went tits up; perfect aural recall was fantastic for learning, less so for lying in bed at night, analysing and overanalysing every word, sentence and murmur until he thought he might go mad.

He picks up the plastic sheath and walks to the door, standing in front of it with his eyes closed, focussing on his breathing. He reaches up and clicks the control on the headphone cord to start the music playing, letting the thumping bass and ragged guitar fill his mind and push away all the thoughts that want to keep him inside. Properly fortified, he blows out a breath and slides the chain off his door, unlocking it and stepping out into the hallway. 

He can't help himself, he checks both ways down the hall, making sure the coast is clear before locking and triple checking the knob. He heads to the stairwell - doesn't want to get trapped in the elevator - and makes his way down three flights and into the foyer, pushing past the fear and bursting out into the street at speed.

He walks to the beat of the drums, darting around people who are walking too slow and staring at the ground a few feet ahead of himself so he doesn't accidentally catch anybody's eye or run in to anyone. It should only be a ten minute walk. He can make it that far.

He'd spent the past month researching every tattoo parlour in the area; searching out their websites and artists portfolios, cataloguing and rating them by ability and personal preference. He knew what he wanted, he could see it in his head perfectly. He just had to find the right person to indelibly etch it into his skin.

He'd found her, eventually, in a small out of the way store in a dingy part of town, near enough to the only place he left the apartment to go - Shatterdome Records - that he felt confident he'd be able to make it there and back without incident. 

Her linework and shading were amazing and her colours blended seamlessly. Best of all, she worked from a private room and was willing to do the initial consultation over email and Skype once he'd scanned and sent her his basic idea. And sent the store a downpayment for her time.

He reaches the block that the store is on and slows a little so he can read the signs as he walks past. He slows further outside the door to the tattoo parlour, raises his hand to push it open, and then keeps walking, powering down to the end of the street and around the corner. He slows his pace as he makes his way around the block, trying to convince himself that he can do this. He knows he's muttering to himself like a crazy person, but, hey, he kind of is, and fuck if he doesn't find safety there: normal people don't mess with crazy - they're going to get out of _his_ way so he can focus on what he needs to do.

He walks around the block and finds himself outside the door of the tattoo parlour again. He stops, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as he raises a hand and pushes through. The place looks clean, hygienic; white tiled floors and precisely placed flash on the walls. The dude behind the counter says something to him and he stares blankly until he remembers his headphones and scrambles to turn the music off and tug them off his head.

"What?" he asks, fumbling to shove his headphones on his shoulder, ear pieces pressed tight against his chest and shoulder blade.

"Can I help you?" The dude says with a roll of his eyes, clearly having repeated himself.

"Ah, yeah, I- yeah. I've got an, uh, appointment. With Fang. Is she- She's available? I haven't got the wrong day? I mean-" Newt stutters, falling over his own words and he can't seem to get a thought straight in his head before another one comes and blows it apart.

"Newt, right? I'll let her know you're here. Take a seat." He disappears down the back hall and Newt can see him knocking on a door at the end. He can't hear what the dude's saying over the low strains of Iggy and the Stooges through the speakers behind the counter and he feels awkward just standing in front of the door. He sits in an uncomfortable plastic chair and stares down at the picture in his hand, imagining it spreading out across his back. If he's right, this won't be the last.

"She'll be out in a sec," the dude says as he comes back, sitting back at the counter and staring at the computer screen.

"Right, thanks. Right," he says sitting up straighter, leg jiggling until he irritates even himself and has to press his hand down against his knee until he stops. 

A door in the back opens and he hears the clip-clop of heels on tile and sees her walking toward him, loose white tank exposing tattoos that curl around her arms and disappear down her back. "Newt?" She asks as she gets closer and he's standing and nodding like a fool as he takes a step towards her.

"Yeah, hi. Yes. I'm Newt. You're Fang? Hi."

She looks him up and down and nods, jerking her head towards the back room as she turns and walks away. "Come on through."

He follows her, trying not to crumple the sketch in his hand as his tension mounts, and ducks through the door that she gestures to and stands in the middle of the room.

"I know we haven't even done the first piece yet, but I kind of finished the second one and thought I should show you so that you can, y'know, have a decent idea of how I want it to continue and so you can make adjustments if you need to so that it'll be a more cohesive finished product." He says, holding the sheath out to her awkwardly.

She takes it and looks at it for a moment then glances up at him. "Take off your shirt," she says and sits at a table in the corner of the room, pulling out the final version of the first piece.

He struggles to get his jacket and hoody and shirt off without being awkward and fails, throwing them onto a chair and looking down at his feet. Fang stands and brings the two pictures over, putting one on the padded bench and holding the other up to his arm. "So, you want this one coming up your shoulder blade, curving over your shoulder to your chest, then curling down your arm, yeah?" 

"Yeah. I want Godzilla to be, sort of, clawing through my skin to reveal one of Ghidorah's heads. You're cool with not doing the Ghidorah bits until the end, right? That's not going to fu- mess up what you're doing now, is it? I just- I'm not ready for that yet." Newt looks at Fang, biting his lip, suddenly worried that she's going to turn him away because he hasn't given her the whole piece. "I... This is going to sound weird, I know, but, I need to feel like he's... protecting me."

"People get tattoos for all kinds of different reasons. Whatever yours are, it's fine. We can work at your pace. Some parts will probably look a little awkward and unfinished until it's all done, though. Is that okay?" She asks, looking at him seriously.

"Yeah, yeah, that's cool. I'm kinda in this for the long haul," he says with an embarrassed laugh.

"Okay. Where did you want the second piece? In the middle, or on your other shoulder?" She turns him around and places the sketch in various places on his back, trying to get a feel for how it would work.

"Mothra goes in the middle. I'll send you some reference pics of her when I get home." Newt cranes his head to look at her over his shoulder. "I'm still trying to work out how Radon's going to fit on the other side, but I won't be getting him for a while yet."

He watches as she tilts her head to the side and squints before nodding and taking the sketches back to the table and picking up the transfers.

"Up," she says, patting the bench and laying out the pieces. "Since it's your first time, I'm gonna walk you through the process. So, these are the transfers - it's a fairly big piece, so it's easier to break them up and apply them separately. I'll put the one on your back on first and you can tell me if it's in the right position. We can remove and reapply them until you're happy with the placement, so don't worry." She places it on his back and adjusts it a few times before holding it in position. "Okay, so this one starts here," she places a finger at the base of his shoulder blade. "...and spreads from here to here at the bottom..." Her hand spans from the centre of his back to a few inches below his arm pit. "...and here to here at the top." Her hand slides up and spans a couple of inches across his shoulder. "Does that feel good?"

"Yeah. Sure, yeah," he says, nodding nervously and clasping his knees tightly.

"Okay, I'll apply it and then you can check it," she dampens the transfer and pats it down, making sure all the inked parts are wet before carefully peeling it off. "Okay, go have a look. There's a hand mirror there if you need it." 

He hops off the bench and takes a deep breath before walking to the mirror on the wall, turning around so he can see the purple-blue outline spreading across his back. He twists and turns to see it better, and grabs the hand mirror so he can see every angle. He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath.

It fits.

"It's good," he says and walks back to the bench.

"Are you sure? We can't move it once we start." She's looking at him with serious eyes and he focusses on the catlike flicks of her eyeliner, trying not to second guess himself. 

"No. No, it's good," He says and pauses. "Uh, can I see it with the rest of it on? Just to, y'know, make sure it works."

"Not a problem. Just wanted to make sure you liked where the big piece was before we started lining the rest up. It can be a bit fiddly in placements like these." She pats the bench again and grabs the next piece, waiting for him to settle before standing and lining up the piece going down his shoulder. She repeats the dampening process and moves on to the next bit, getting him to look straight ahead as she puts the transfer over his shoulder. She wets it from the back to the front, keeping it in line with the rest of the piece and not allowing it to crumple as it reaches his collar bone. She moves around him to place the third, stretching from the top of his shoulder and down the back of his arm. "All done. Go have a look."

He stands again and he's feeling a little wobbly even though they haven't even really begun. He looks at the outline and he can see where Godzilla's claws will be tearing through his arm and the curl of his atomic breath over his collarbone. He stares at it and then up at his own face - the bags under his eyes magnified by the coke-bottle lenses and the way his skin looks sallow and unhealthy. He looks at Godzilla again and nods. He needs this.

"It's good. I'm ready. Let's go," he says with a clap of his hands, feeling his heart racing a mile a minute as he steps back to the bench.

"Okay then, if you're sure...?" She raises an eyebrow and the flash of doubt crosses his mind again.

"Yes? I mean: Yes. Yes, I'm sure." He's come this far. He can't let a little doubt stop him. What's the worst that can happen?

He mentally kicks himself to stop thinking.

"Lie down on your stomach," she says gesturing to the bench and pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "Do you want me to take your glasses?"

He hesitates for a moment as he lies down before raising up to take them off and hand them to her. He's pretty much blind now, but he doesn't need to see for this. He lays his head down and leaves his arms stretched out behind him as he waits for her to finish her preparations.

"I'm going to start with the linework. If it gets to be too much or you need a break, just let me know, okay?" She puts a hand on his back and tests the tattoo gun a few times until he nods and then she's drawing it lightly across his skin, pausing and wiping every so often.

He tenses a little, he can't help it. He knew it would be painful, but he hadn't really known what to expect. It's like nothing he's ever felt before; not as painful or deep as a single hypodermic, and not as sudden and hot as carpet burn. It's sort of a low-level, constant mixture of the two. It's weird, but it literally feels like the opposite of the anxious tension that flickers across his flesh when he gets too riled up. 

It feels like fighting back.

"How can a monster who's tearing through your skin be protecting you?" Fang asks quietly as she works and Newt bites his lip, turning his head away as he squeezes his eyes shut.

"There are..." He stops and takes a deep breath. "There are things... inside of me... that I can't fight. Not physically. I need monsters... to protect me from my monsters."

"Is - Was it Ghidorah? - Is Ghidorah your monster?" She continues to work and he's not sure if she's asking because she's genuinely curious or to take his mind off the pain.

"Sort of?" He says, and tries to figure out how to explain the movie in layman's terms. "In one of the movies, Godzilla, Mothra and Radon banded together to save the earth from Ghidorah, who's sort of a triple-headed, alien dragon creature. I've, uh..." He pauses. Breathes. "I've got three monsters inside me. They're all, sort of, twisted up together... anxiety... panic... bipolar... I-... I can't fight them alone." His chest and throat tighten as he vocalises his reasons and it eclipses the pain in his shoulder. "I don't think I can talk about this any more."

"It's okay. Just let me know if you need a break," she says and the room is silent but for the buzz of the needle and the sound of his blood pumping in his ears.

They take a break at the two hour mark - Fang needs to rest her arm for a while - and he walks around to get the feeling back in his legs. He can feel blood and ink oozing down his back and he hisses with pain if he stretches too far. Most of the black work is done, they'll be moving on to colour soon.

He sits sideways in a chair as she does the front, looking off into space after he'd realised he'd been staring down her shirt as she worked. Getting inked across the collarbone hurts more than the shoulder blade - he hadn't thought that could be possible - and his knuckles turn to white as he grips the chair and tries not to whimper.

She has him back on the bench to finish; leads him there from the chair on shaky legs with a guiding hand that probably won't do much if he does fall. The colour hurts less and he's not sure if it's because he's been desensitised to the pain, or if there's some intrinsic difference in the ink. He'll have to ask next time he comes in. Right now, his mind feels quiet for the first time in forever and he presses his face into the bench to hide his stupid smile.

When Fang finally finishes, it's been five hours and it's getting dark outside. He wobbles to the mirror to look at her work and has to resist the urge to brush his fingers over the smokey tendrils curling over his chest. He turns and looks over his shoulder and his eyes go wide.

It's perfect.

She's somehow managed to make Godzilla look benevolent; his eyes less harsh than they had been in the initial drawings. He's a deep, rich green - dotted with blood, but that would heal - and his ridges are purple and crystalline and perfect - able to withstand and protect. 

The claws do look a little odd, stretching into the expanse of his freckled arm, reaching for nothing, but one day Ghidorah would be there, peeking through the tears.

He wants to hug Fang but doesn't want to cover her in blood and ink. Instead he grasps her hand and thanks spill from his lips like a grateful waterfall. He feels light and he feels safe and he feels like he can do this. 

He can survive.

She covers his tattoo in cotton padding and gauze - wrapping saran around his upper arm - and gives him a sheet with the aftercare instructions. After he gets his clothes back on, she leads him to the front of the store and hands him a tube of lotion. He settles the bill with the dude at the counter and makes his way out into the street. 

He stands in the middle of the sidewalk and stops and for the first time in more than nine months he can see things as they really are. The dark shadows recede from mundane objects and the world no longer feels malevolent. The people are just people, going about their business, making their way home; they don't look at him when his attention is elsewhere, they're not going to suddenly turn and call him out for he doesn't even know what. They really don't care.

He's nobody.

He turns and shoves his hands into his pockets - this time for physical comfort, not protection; the distinction feels important - and meanders down the street, walking slowly because he doesn't know how long this is going to last. He makes his way to the corner and if he turns left, he'll just go home. If he goes right, he can stop in at the 'dome and pretend to be be a real human boy for a while.

He's still riding the high. There's a stupid grin on his face and he feels a little in love with the sensation. He's _happy_. He feels like he used to and he could kiss the ground just for being there right now. 

He turns right and walks and it's arrhythmic and full of swagger and his headphones aren't even on. He grins down at them, hooked over his arm, and laughs a little. There's a skip in his step and he speeds up a little - he wants to share this with Tendo before it fades.

It's only a few minutes before he's standing opposite the 'dome, looking out into traffic and getting ready to cross. (It's been way too long since he felt confident enough to jaywalk.) He can see the gloriously tacky neon lights buzzing in the window of the store and can't wait to duck in and see what new treats are in stock.

He darts through a large enough gap between cars and jogs across to stand on the corner to catch his breath - he'll admit it, he's a little out of shape at the moment. He's looking up at the big empty building beside the 'dome as he stands there and a sign in the window catches his eye. He makes his way over and peeks in through the dirty windows, cupping his hands to block out his own reflection so he can see better.

The space is dirty and bare and stretches back further than he can see in the dim light. He takes a few steps back and looks up at the windows stretching across the front of the building. He walks around the side and can see how far back it goes, can see that the windows upstairs wrap almost completely around and the building directly opposite on the side street has none. 

He can feel a plan beginning to form as he presses himself back up against the window. He can see it - blue and white checkered floor tiles stretching out under tables and red-leather cushioned booths along one bay of windows and the counter along the wall. There would be art on the walls and he'd play music all the time. He could live upstairs and work downstairs and the space would be all his - he'd be in charge, he'd be safe. People would come in and he wouldn't be alone but he'd have the power to ask them to leave if they stepped out of line. 

This could work. 

This could be the thing he needed.

He rushes around to the front of the building and stops in front of the sign staring at it intently as he reads the number below _For Sale_ out loud twice so he'll remember it. A touch of paranoia kicks in and he's pulling out his phone and copying it into his notes, turning around so he can take down the street names and building number for if he calls.

 _When_ he calls. 

His grin is even wider as he shoves his phone back in his pocket and practically dances into Shatterdome Records.

"Hey hey, brother! Wasn't expecting you until later in the week." Tendo says and comes around the counter to give Newt a hug. 

Newt hisses as Tendo's hand smacks into his shoulder and shrugs out of the hug with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, man. I, uh, just got a tattoo."

"No apologies necessary. Your first?" Tendo asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, finished about half an hour ago."

"Sweet. By the looks of it, it's not going to be your last." Tendo winks and heads back behind the counter to rummage underneath it and pull out a stack of CDs.

"How'd you know?" Newt asks, a little shocked by Tendo's accuracy. He hadn't told anyone about his plans.

"Well, for one, they're kind of addictive," Tendo says with a grin. "For another, you've got that look about you - endorphin rush. You seem a lot... calmer than usual."

"So this is normal? I mean, I'm not going to build up a resistance to it, right? You still get like this?" He's been a little worried that that might be the case.

"It's like I'm walking on cloud nine every time. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it." He puts the CDs down in front of Newt with a shrug. "I don't have that much for you right now, but there's some cool shit there, might be your thing."

"Cool. I'll settle everything up now." Newt pulls out his wallet and hands over his card, turning to look about the store and see who's about - it's practically deserted this late in the afternoon, just one dude in the corner checking out the vinyl. "The place next door, it's been empty pretty much forever, right?" 

"The corner? Yeah. Boutiques and shit occasionally pop up in there, but they never last. This neighbourhood's not ready to gentrify yet. It's coming - we're too close to the city for it _not_ to - but it's not happening any time soon. The 'dome'll be here until the condos knock everything down, that's for sure." Tendo shrugs as he handed Newt's card back. 

"So, what you're saying is that it'll be cheap and low traffic?" Newt flips through the stack of CDs to see what he's just bought, trying to play it nonchalant.

"I guess so... You looking to buy?" Tendo raises an eyebrow at him.

"I- Well, uh, yeah? Maybe?" Newt shrugs and suddenly feels awkward. "I mean, I had the idea, like, less than ten minutes ago, but I've been kind of looking for something to do and I was thinking that I could maybe handle a coffee shop or a bookstore or something."

"Man, if you get decent coffee into this neighbourhood I will one-hundred percent blow you." Tendo looks at him like he's seen the face of god, jaw dropped and eyes wide. "I'm not even yanking your chain. You could drop trou right there and I would have a face full of dick faster than you can say 'double espresso'."

"I'll keep that in mind," Newt says with an awkward laugh. "It's not going to happen any time soon, but, y'know. It might be something I do."

"You have my full support, man. I will wave pom poms and shit for you."

"Thanks. I appreciate it. Really." Newt isn't sure if it's the endorphins wearing off or if the enormity of what he's vaguely planning is overriding everything but he needs to leave. His mind's awash with potential and knowing Tendo would be next door is actually way more comforting than he anticipated. He wants to get a move on this; find out if it's even _plausible_ before he lets himself get too far. "Listen, I gotta go, man. I need to work out if this is even possible. Thanks for the tunes." He plugs his headphones into his mp3 player and slips them over his head - his mind's moving too fast now.

"You coming again on your usual day? Or do you just want me to keep stockpiling?" Tendo asks as Newt reaches the door, hand hovering over the controls on his headphones.

"We'll see how it goes, yeah? Later." Newt shrugs and he's back on the street.

He stops outside the building on the corner, staring up at it, and it feels like he's getting smaller as it towers over him. He shakes his head and blinks, pinching his arm to ground himself. The tattoo stretches and the pain is enough to bring him back down.

The more he stares, the more he likes the idea. 

It can be his space, one hundred percent. It's so much easier to deal with people when he can tell where the power lies - he gives it to people who don't deserve it too much, he knows. But if it's his? If he's the _owner_?

A grin spreads over his face as he looks up and nods decisively, pressing the button to start the music playing. 

He's going to buy a building and become a responsible member of society. It's settled.

He heads back down the way he came, past the street that leads to the tattoo parlour and along the thoroughfares that are usually teeming with people. Focussed as he is on his plans and with the endorphins riding high in his system, he barely notices the people he passes, darting out of the way should he end up on a collision course but not paying them any mind.

Reaching his building, he automatically heads for the stairwell and stops, looking over his shoulder at the elevator. The light says it's on the second floor and he hesitates with his hand on the door handle. He doesn't want to test his luck, but at the same time he _knows_ that this is something that he can do. This is in his power. How is he supposed to be the kind of person who owns a business if he can't even ride an elevator?

Sure, there have to be millions of people in the world who are afraid of riding in elevators, but... he doesn't want to be those people. Everything's on his side right now. His mind is quiet. He knows the anxiety's there, just waiting for the cotton muffling of the endorphins to choke and die, but it's behind triple-glazed, sound-proof glass; he can see it, beating its gnarled hands against the glass, but he can only feel the vibrations, not hear the words.

He lets go of the handle and walks to stand in front of the elevator doors, pressing the button and looking up at the little light in trepidation. His palms are sweating and he wipes them off against his jeans, shifting the stack of CDs from one side to the other. Closing his eyes, he breathes slowly _in through the nose out through the mouth in through the nose out through the mouth_ as he waits for the ding.

The doors slide open and he can do this; he _knows_ he can do this.

He wills his legs to move and he wants to, but he can't seem to make it work.

The doors slide closed again and he huffs in frustration.

He can do this. It's just a short ride to the fourth floor. Nothing's going to happen. He's fine. Everything's okay. It's just a small enclosed space. He's not in a horror movie. Nothing bad is going to happen. People do this every day.

He stomps forward and hits the button again, stomping inside before the doors are fully open and smacking his hand against the button for the third floor before he can talk himself out of it.

Nothing's going to go wrong. 

Everything's fine. 

The doors close and the elevator lurches upward. He's fine. He has a small moment where he thinks that because everything's gone so well, something bad is about to happen. He wonders if it's the high wearing off, or if it's just the situation. He's pretty sure he'd already be in the corner hyperventilating and feeling like he was going to die, throat tight and heart stuttering in his chest, if he'd tried to do this cold on any other day. Or he never would have made it in in the first place. Everything's fine.

He stands still and he's tense, but calm. He's watching the light go from floor to floor and he's okay. He feels the jewel cases of the CDs begin to give under the pressure of his fingers and loosens his grip. He's okay. He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath as the light reaches his floor and the elevator shudders to a halt. Nothing's happened. This is normal. Everything's fine. The doors slide open and he holds himself still until he can open his eyes, hold his chin up, and walk into the hall like a calm, rational human being.

Everything's okay.

He reaches his door and looks back as he fishes in his pocket for his keys - the elevator closes and the light heads up. He grins as he slides the key into the lock and slips inside. 

He did it.

He leans his shoulder against the door and laughs, throwing his keys into the bowl on the hallstand and shoving the CDs beside it. He pulls his headphones off and turns his face to press against the closed door. His glasses press into his cheek but he's laughing and the door is solid and real under his hand.

He slides the chain into place and double checks that the door is locked.

Baby steps.

He checks the clock as he gingerly slides his jacket off his shoulders and he's got an hour until the call. He rubs his hand lightly over his shoulder, feeling the crinkle of the padding under his hoody and shirt and the pain is a throbbing warmth - a welcome warning, like a hand resting on his shoulder to guide him, not hold him back. 

He makes his dinner as it gets dark, curses the tiny kitchen - his old refrigerator that leaks a puddle onto the floor, the oven with its highest setting of moderate sunburn, the sullen hotplate - and stares at the number on his phone as he eats. He wants to call; wants to just pick up the phone and ask how much and be done with it. 

He thinks maybe he should wait.

Not forever, just... until he's talked it over with someone who's ostensibly more rational than he is.

He checks his account details online and looks out the statements from the trust

Ten minutes.

He puts his plate in the sink and sits at his desk, pushing aside his drawing materials and setting up his laptop. He looks over his shoulder and tries to guess how much of the apartment she'll see at this angle - the place isn't a huge mess, but he still worries that she'll be judging his ability to take care of himself if there's too much junk in the frame. He picks up a few things and is tossing them into the laundry basket in the bathroom when the shrill tone of an incoming call echoes through the apartment.

He hurries back to the desk, takes a breath to centre himself and hits connect, adjusting the webcam as it comes online.

"Good evening, Newt," his therapist says and all he can see behind her is a generic hotel painting and a beige wall.

"Hi, Dr. Silva," he replies and he can't help but grin.

"You seem happy today," she says and the _why_ is obvious. He tries not to let it get to him.

"Yeah, I had a really, uh, a really good day. I think I made a lot of progress." He's still pleased with himself; it's a giddy feeling burbling at his core and up his back, tendrils stretching up and pulling his cheeks back in a smile he just can't stop.

"Oh? What sort of progress?" He knows she chooses her words carefully - she can't afford not to - and usually it feels like there's an underlying accusation, but today he's just going to roll with it.

"Well, uh... I left the apartment, for one. I walked around without my headphones on for a while and didn't freak out. I visited Tendo and bought some new music. I... found a building I'm thinking about buying and I rode the elevator all the way up to my floor."

She stares at him for a moment with an unreadable expression before looking out of frame while making a note - he can hear the paper crinkle and, just like every other time, he gets paranoid about what she wrote down. "That is a lot of... progress. Are you still taking your medication?" 

She thinks he's on a manic upswing, and, fuck, he should have eased her into the buying a building thing but it's at the forefront of his mind and he couldn't help but blurt it out.

"No. No, it's not- I mean, _yes_ , I'm still taking my meds. Morning and night. But, _no_ , this isn't- I'm not... _unstable_ right now. I'm in a good place. This is a good place. Really." His palms are sweaty and his heart is pounding a little and she probably thinks his pendulum's about to start swinging again. 

He doesn't think he's going to make it through this call before the rush wears off. 

"I, uh, kind of got a tattoo. While I was out. That was why I left the apartment. I've been planning it for a while and I've always wanted one. It, uh- I've been reading a lot about body modification and stuff over the past few months." He shrugs and looks down at his hands. "I wanted to get something... symbolic. It's, like, part of my 'healing process'." His brow furrows as he looks up. "Do I sound like an ass if I say 'healing process'? It feels kind of lame. I just... I want to get over my shit. And... this is the first step, I guess."

"So, a lot has happened today," she says and her face is still a practiced study of non-judgement that makes his skin crawl a little. "How about we unpack them one by one? First you left the apartment to get your... tattoo?"

"Yeah," he bites his lip and looks down. "It's, like, I can do things if I have time to prepare. I mean, I've been planning this trip for three weeks; I knew where I was going and what was going to happen. Well, for the most part. People are still kind of scary variables. But, y'know, I've been going to Tendo's regularly since I got out and, I dunno, I just thought... this was something I could do."

She's writing away and he sucks on his lips as he waits for her to respond.

"So, planning and forewarning are important to you?" She looks up with a raised eyebrow as she finishes writing.

"Well, yeah. We've been over this. I can sort of head the anxiety and panic off at the pass if I can just remind myself how things are going to go."

"And if it didn't go according to plan?"

"It's probably not healthy but... feigning ignorance tends to work for me. I mean, I've got the huge headphones on. I can just pretend that I'm not involved." Newt picks at his nails, he doesn't want to look up and see accusation in her eyes.

"But what if you are involved?"

"You're beginning to sound like my anxiety." He looks up at her with a frown. " _What if what if what if_... I get that enough from me. I don't need it from you, too."

"I apologise, Newt. Do you want to continue to talk about this, or move on?" He thinks she's sincere. He hopes she's sincere.

"I don't know that there's a point to it. I've got something that works right now. I don't need to go on and on about it unless it stops working or I want to move past it, right?" 

She always wants to talk about the anxiety but it feels like flogging a dead horse half the time.

"Okay, we can come back to this another time... Do you want to tell me about your tattoo?"

"Um, not really?" He says with a cringe. "I mean, maybe one day. But right now it's... mine. It's special... and private. It's got meaning to me and I'd rather not have it analysed until it's at least, y'know, healed."

"Very well. That just leaves the elevator and the... building you wish to buy. Do you have a preference?"

"Um, the building? I know it's kind of a huge thing but I think the fact that I'm talking to you about it first should kind of prove that this isn't the bipolar talking, right? I'm not manic, this is something I'm serious about and I want to do it right."

He looks up and she closes her eyes and nods her head in concession.

"Okay, so, here's how it happened. I stopped in at Tendo's after getting the tattoo and I, well, there was a kind of endorphin rush thing going on. It was like, my brain was _quiet_ and I didn't have to worry about all the variables I couldn't control. I had my headphones off and, oh, man, I _jaywalked_." He laughs a little, embarrassed. "I don't mean to be all _woohoo, breakin' the law_ , but you know even just the idea of it usually freaks me out."

There's a quirk of her lip and he can't tell if it's amusement or judgement. He pushes past it and continues before she has a chance to slow him down with a discussion of his criminal tendencies.

"Anyway, I ended up in front of the empty building beside Shatterdome and there was a For Sale sign in the window and... something in my head just _clicked_. I mean, I know you think I shouldn't have quit the university but at this stage I don't think I could work _for_ anyone else." He shrugs, lips twisting a little bitterly. "It's in a low-rent, low traffic neighbourhood so I could probably handle a bookstore or a coffee shop or something. There's space upstairs where I could have an apartment. I just think that, y'know, if it were _my_ space and _I_ was in charge it could be something that could work for me."

"You do seem to have thought a lot about this." That one's just a statement; there's no questioning there at all. He feels a little relieved.

"Even when my mind's quiet, it's still a little loud." He shrugs, laughing awkwardly. "Uh, I haven't called the number, yet. Would you- Is it okay if I call them now? You know I don't really like using the phone, but I need to find out how much they want so I can set the balls in motion. Or if there are any balls that can be motivated... I think that came out wrong. I'd just... I'd feel better if there was someone here. There. With me. While I do it."

"This is your hour, Newt," she says, not unkindly. "You can use it how you see fit."

"Okay. Okay, cool," he says rubbing his sweaty palms against his knees. "Let me just get my phone." He stands and grabs his phone from the coffee table, taking a moment to collect himself before he sits back down. "Do you- do you think I can do this?"

He can see her put her pen down out of frame and she turns to regard him seriously. "I think... that you can do whatever you put your mind to. You proved that with today's excursion: that was all you. However, I also think that you should be prepared for the reality of owning a business. It can be a very stressful undertaking. At this stage in your recovery... I'm not sure it's the best course for you to take."

Newt slumps a little in his chair; he'd been expecting it, but hearing it out loud still felt like a blow. "Yeah. Yeah, I figured as much." He looks down at his hands. "I did the math, though. Kind of hard not to with this brain. I was thinking, y'know, it'd take a month or two to actually buy the building - that sort of stuff takes time, right? - that'd put me right at the beginning of winter so I'd have time to find... an architect? Contractor? Whatever. I'd find someone to do up the apartment upstairs first, and once that was done I'd get the actual business part sorted out. That'd be at least six months just for me to move in. Closer to a year before whatever business I started opened." He looks up at her a little wistfully. "Is that a timeframe we could possibly work with? I _really_ want this."

There's a long pause on her end of the call and he can see that she's thinking hard, but whether it's to build him up or tear him down, he can't tell.

"I don't want to give you false hope, but I also don't want you to think that this endeavour is outside the realm of possibility. I am not your financial or business advisor, so I cannot speak to those aspects. I am your psychiatrist and therapist. I am focussed on your mental health and wellbeing, and in helping you get to a place where you can handle your stressors on your own. If this is something you want to work towards, I will support you in that." 

Newt can't help the grin that spreads across his face. All he needed was the tiniest spark and now he can fan it into a flame. 

"Great. Awesome. _Great_. I- Thanks. I want this. I want to work toward this. This is. _Great_." He bounces in his seat a little and he can see her resist the urge to shake her head at him. "Okay, I'm going to make the call. I'm making the call. I'm just going to ask them how much they want for it and then I'm going to say thank you and end the call. Okay, I can do this. I can do this."

"Deep breaths, Newt," she says to stem the flow of words. "In through the nose, out through the mouth." Normally that would irritate him, but today it's kind of helpful and he follows the direction without question.

When he looks back at the phone he feels a lot calmer. He picks it up and dials the number, holding it up to show her that it's ringing before putting it to his ear.

"Hello? Hi, I'm calling about the, uh, property at the corner of Shepherd and Fry... You're still selling? ... Okay. ... How much are you asking? ... Huh. Okay. ... No, I'll let you know. ... Yeah, bye." He hangs up the phone and scrabbles for a pencil so he can write it down before he forgets.

"Well?" 

He takes a moment breathe before answering her; it wasn't a long call, but it got his heart racing. Not being able to see the other person's face is somehow worse than being able to and coming up with seventeen different interpretations for each expression.

"So, uhh, I'm pretty sure I can afford it. I'll have to talk with the trust manager first, but I think I can do it." He looks up a little stunned. There was a part of him that hadn't really expected a positive outcome. A large part.

"You seem shocked."

"Well, yeah. Kind of. I just... If it was out of my price range then it wouldn't have been _my_ fault that it failed." He looks at her a little wild eyed. "Now it's kind of... real."

"It's still in your power, Newt," she says, leaning back in her chair. "It's your decision whether you go ahead with it or not. If it feels like too much, it is perfectly okay for you to put it aside and come back to it at a time when you're feeling more able to cope."

"Nonono, I still want to do this," he says, shaking his head frantically. "It's just a little daunting. I mean, it's all on me."

"I'm sorry, Newt. Your hour's up." She says gently. "I realise that this is not the best place to leave the discussion. We can spend our next session unpacking the emotions surrounding this decision and, over the coming months, we can work on developing some workplace specific coping strategies. I think it would be a beneficial for you to put together a list of both regular stressors and potential conflicts that you might encounter as the owner of a business so we can break them down and preemptively address them."

"Right. Sure, sure. Yeah," Newt says, leg jiggling as he makes a quick note of it.

"I would advise that you hold off on making the purchase until you're absolutely sure. By all means, talk to your trust manager, but you shouldn't go into this feeling pressured to further your recovery; your healing process will take the course it will."

"Of course. Yeah. I just- I don't want _this_ to be my life, y'know? I-" Newt cuts himself off with a cringe. He can see her shifting her hand to her mouse. "Sorry. Sorry, I know. Hour's up. You have places to be."

"You've made a lot of progress, Newt. Don't lose hope. We'll talk again on Thursday." She smiles kindly as she disconnects the call and Newt has to take a moment to drop forward, elbows resting on his knees, as he scrubs his hand over his face and groans.

If he had his shit together, this wouldn't even be a problem. He'd just go out and buy the building. 

He probably wouldn't buy the building.

He'd probably still be in a lab learning new things.

He closes his laptop and drags himself over to the couch, flopping down to look at the statements from the trust. His account is healthy. Very healthy. He can afford to make this happen.

But now that the reality of it's crashing down on him, he's starting to worry. The endorphins are totally gone and all that's left is the agitated buzz of his brain. _What if what if what if_. It makes him want to go out and get another tattoo just to stop the noise for a little while longer. He has a sudden image of himself, fifteen years in the future, covered neck to ankle in tattoos and still being pulled back by the claws of his own brain chemistry.

He leans back on the couch, hisses as the tattoo presses against the backrest and for a brief, glorious moment his mind is sharp and focussed. He grins a little and makes a mental note of the effect, wonders if a rubber band snapped against his wrist would be the same - he has rubber bands here somewhere, he should try it - and hopes his need for mental clarity doesn't fuck up his ink. 

He wants to go into the bathroom, pull off his shirt and peel back the cotton padding and gauze protecting the tattoo and just take it all in. He wants to see Godzilla's face and the brightness of the colours and know that it's a part of him now.

He doesn't. He has to let it heal as much as he needs it to help _him_ heal.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and looks at it with resignation; if he's going to do this, he's going to need to make sure someone other than Godzilla has his back. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds the number he wants, takes a calming breath, and hits dial, holding it to his ear and waiting until it connects.

"Hey, Uncle Illia? I need your help."


End file.
